


In Earth's Cradle

by Miya_Morana



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Gen, Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-17 12:00:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5868562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miya_Morana/pseuds/Miya_Morana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They thought he was dead. They buried him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Earth's Cradle

**Author's Note:**

> Written for my friend imtheembers over on tumblr, for the prompt "buried alive".

Fenris moves through the battle, Fade-stepping to get faster, to dodge attacks and projectiles. One second he’s not-quite-there, and the enemy sword is ripping through air, the next he’s material again, his fist becoming solid inside the soldier’s chest, flesh and bone ripping to make space for him.

He doesn’t see who fires the arrow, but he feels it as the shaft slides in-between his ribs, piercing a lung. Fenris can’t breath, through the pain and the shock and the blood flooding his lungs. He barely manages to Fade-step long enough for the arrow to fall to the ground without doing more damage, and then he’s falling to his knees.

For the first time since the Chantry, maybe the first time in years and years, Fenris wishes Anders was here. He wishes the familiar warmth of the mage’s healing magic would wrap around him, mend his flesh, make sure he can stand and fight for as long as it takes. But Hawke sent him away after they finished saving the circle from Meredith’s insanity, and Merrill can’t cast healing spells, another price of her blood magic. 

There’s blood on the dirt ground, his or the enemy’s or both, Fenris doesn't know. He can’t think. He can’t breath. He needs to heal, needs to… The lyrium brands on his skin flare up, blindingly bright, and Fenris tries to force this destructive power to heal, to mend. It’s not what it’s meant for, and his whole body protests. 

Fenris doesn’t feel it when his face hits the muddy ground. His heartbeat is slowing, almost to a stop, but he thinks he can feel himself slowly start to heal. The smell of blood fills his nose. The oblivion of unconsciousness is a welcome respite from the pain. 

***

He wakes up, much later, in complete darkness. His heartbeat is slow, too slow, and so are his thoughts. It takes him several minutes to realise there’s something on his face. Slowly, he tries to raise a hand, but there’s fabric restricting his movements, holding his arms against his side. Fenris takes a sharp in-breath, feeling more fabric against his mouth. Now that he’s identified it, he can tell that’s what he’s been feeling on his face. He’s been wrapped, head-to-toe, into some sort of sheet or cloth. 

Fenris’s heartbeat, which had still been a little too slow, quickens with a sudden surge of panic. He pulls on the strength of his lyrium brands to free his right arm, ripping through the fabric, but the strength comes with a sharp, searing pain in his lungs and the lyrium tattoos on his skin feel like liquid fire. Whatever he did to heal himself has left him crippled, and he’s pretty sure that if he tries to phase out of his restraint, he’s going to either pass out or outright die from the pain.

His arm is free though, and Fenris slowly, carefully disentangles himself from the fabric. In the dark, he knocks on something on top of him, rough and cold. His knee encounters the same thing on his left side, and Fenris starts to panic when it dawns on him. It’s wooden planks around him, and a shroud he’s been wrapped in.

They thought he was dead. They buried him.

Fenris’s breathing become erratic as he finishes to wrestles out of the shroud, his heart beating faster than ever. His body is weak from healing itself over who knows how long. The air around him is stuffy, it feels like it’s not enough, it’s never gonna be enough.

They took off his armor. Of course they did. Hawke, probably, ever the scavenger, never letting anything go to waste. Which means Fenris doesn’t have the clawed gauntlets to help him rip through the wood of the cheap coffin. So he slams his fist against it, over and over, wincing through the pain in is fingers. He should slow his breathing, save some air, but he can’t. It’s dark and cold and oppressive in his tomb, and all Fenris can think of is the six feet of dirt above him, waiting to fall on him, to choke and suffocate him, but he has to get out, has to.

The wood creeks and breaks and packed earth falls on his chest. Fenris swallows around a panicked moan and grabs the broken edges of the plank, pulling at them to widen the hole. more dirt falls down, and he messily pushes it down towards his feet. The smell of dirt is now filling the coffin, and Fenris chokes,not really registering the fact that he’s crying. He whimpers as he pushes his bleeding fingers into the packed dirt and starts to dig upwards.

It feels like it takes forever to claw his way out. The dirt crumbles or falls by big chunks, and there isn’t enough room to shove it all away. A small part of him wonders if he’s only accelerating his death, but most of his mind is shut off from the panicked need to escape. 

There are things in the dirt. Worms, and spiders and various insect that Fenris wishes he could see instead of feeling them against his fingers, or sliding over his body. His lungs hurt, the air is too thin. His hands hurt from smashing and digging. His chest hurts from his heart’s frantic beating. Fenris is going to die, he knows it. He survived a fatal injury only to die in his own grave, killed by the people who cared enough about him to give him a proper burial.

Dirt falls on his face now. He’s halfway out of the coffin, the earth pressing all around him, as he keeps frantically clawing upwards, moving the dirt down, towards his feet. Something bites his arm and Fenris cries out, the sound muffled in the small space he has to breath. There are cuts all over his body from the small rocks mixed with the dirt. He doesn’t think he’ll ever make it out.

He’s entirely out of the coffin now, he thinks. If he’s been digging straight up, he should be out soon, shouldn’t he? With that though, a new rush of desperate energy courses through him and he digs faster. He keeps his eyes open, hoping to see the light of day, even though dirt falls in them. He’s swallowed a lot of it, too, the taste of it is heavy in his dry mouth. His head is heavy, he feels dizzy from the lack of air.

Suddenly, a bigger chunk of dirt falls down, a rock knocking him on the cheek, cutting his skin. But Fenris doesn’t care. He can see stars above his head. It’s night. He’d been expecting the sunlight, but he doesn’t care. There’s fresh air, and he inhales deeply, then coughs. He stops digging for a few minutes, just breathes and looks up at the stars. He’s smiling like a lunatic, and tears are running down his cheeks, burning where they fall into the cuts on his skin.

Eventually, Fenris starts moving again. Actually climbing out is slow. His limbs are heavy, and he’s exhausted, but he drags himself out of the grave and collapses on the ground. Slowly, he rolls onto his back and looks up at the sky. The moon is shining, almost full, and when Fenris musters the strength to sit up he can see that he’s in an actual graveyard. There’s a pile of stones at the head of his grave, and something’s carved in the biggest one: the shape of a greatsword, surrounded by what looks like the lyrium marks on his face. Fenris raises a shaking head to trace the marks with a fingertip, feeling oddly touched.

There’s a noise in his back, like someone walking, dragging their feet. This is Kirkwall, most people don’t hang out in cemeteries at night, not with how often the dead rise. The only person Fenris knows who’d do it is Hawke.

Fenris smiles faintly, tired but feeling safe, finally. He gathers his strength to get on his feet, holding on the gravestones to help himself up, then turns to face his friend.

It isn’t Hawke. This is Kirkwall, and more often than not, the dead rise at night.


End file.
